


People You've Been Before

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bottom!Bilbo, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Khuzdul kink, M/M, Top!Thorin, very gentle D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo still has some unpleasant memories. Thorin helps him make some new ones. Rating is for Ch. 2 onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been some eight months, since the battle, and autumn was stealing over Erebor again. Bilbo walked quietly through the hallways, seeking the gardens, while it was still warm. Thorin had given him a quiet terrace to make his own, and Thranduil had sent, among other gifts of peace, seeds chosen by the elves for their especial beauty. The flowers that Bilbo grew from them were at times unfamiliar—elven cultivars not often seen in the settlements of men, let alone dwarves (or hobbits). But they were beautiful, and they were, after all his months of wandering, a sort of adventure all on their own. Bilbo learnt what they liked, learnt to care for them and make them grow, and now that the summer was dying, he was carefully gathering seeds for next year, and preserving some of the more useful leaves and fruit.

After all, he wasn’t much use rebuilding Erebor. Whilst the company had grown to see his many talents, and songs had been sung in his honour at high feasts, still they did not extend to working with stone or feats of strength. (Endurance, perhaps. But not strength.) This garden—it was the least he could do, to contribute. And he really felt he must contribute, if he was going to stay here. His staying had seemed to be a forgone conclusion, although he wasn’t entirely sure why.

After some weeding, and clipping, some pressing of flowers and drying of herbs, Bilbo sat back, satisfied, and then took a deep breath. It had become something of a daily ritual, with him. First, he visited his garden, worked himself thoroughly, grounding his soul in the simple labour, and taking pleasure in the results he wrought there, the pleasant fatigue afterwards, the little aches of his body, the sheen of sweat, and the lassitude of his muscles. Then, so fortified, he went to stand over the gates of Erebor, to gaze across at Dale, and to look at the thriving field of wildflowers and grass that now sat between the mountain and the city. There were always guards posted there, but there never disturbed him—he was too lofty a personage. And so he would be left to his thoughts.

They weren’t so much thoughts, exactly—more like sense-impressions that overwhelmed him, every time he stood there. Strong hands seemed to seize him, and a deep and dear voice shouted at him. Sharp stones pressed into his back, as if he were pressed against the last-minute ramparts. His pulse quickened of its own accord as _You have no claim over me!_ rang in his ears. And then suddenly, today, it was not _just_ a memory. Those very same strong hands suddenly really _were_ clasped over his arms, even though he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Bilbo’s eyes, which had closed, shot wide open. His breathing was fast, and laboured. And he very probably made some sort of undignified squeak. The guards, who had heretofore been still as stone, discreetly cast their eyes at the scene made by the king and his companion.

Thorin had approached Bilbo and greeted him demonstrative dwarvish fashion, as he usually did. However, seeing his plain panic at being approached and grabbed, Thorin released Bilbo, slowly and carefully. His fingers ever so lightly traced down the side of Bilbo’s left arm, and Thorin reached out to him, offering a hand to hold. After a second, Bilbo took it, and with some effort, slowed his breathing. He blinked a little, and then looked properly up at Thorin.

“ _Shamukh, zirak akdâmuthrab_ ,” murmured Thorin, his voice full of affection and tenderness, and perhaps a bit of worry. Bilbo took a great deep breath, as if to answer, but then only exhaled, still visibly shaky. He looked down, to where his fingers were entwined loosely with Thorin’s, although he did not pull away. He simply tried to still himself.

“You remember,” said Thorin, switching to the common tongue. It wasn’t a question, but Bilbo breathed out a faint “yes,” anyway. He took one more deep breath, and then he added, “It doesn’t mean I didn’t forgive you. That I don’t forgive you. But I do remember. I… I can’t not remember.”

Thorin nodded, in seeming agreement, but withdrew his hand from Bilbo’s and took a slight step backwards. “It would not be right,” he said slowly, “if you forgot.” His eyes made a study of his iron-capped toes. “I remember too clearly what I felt then. I am more ashamed of it than I can say. But it would be worse if I forgot. Each day you stay at my side, _udmê_ , is a day I cherish. I nearly lost you, Bilbo. And it would have been my own fault.” He swallowed, hard. “So I must not forget. And neither must you.”

Bilbo took a step forward, a little hesitant, and re-entangled his fingers with Thorin’s. “For a second, I thought you were going to do it again. I was so lost in my memories, and then you appeared, as if they were going to repeat themselves.” He paused, and looked up at Thorin, a slow smile spreading over his face. “But you touched me, and you were _you_ , and you were kind.” He switched to Khuzdul—Thorin always did like helping him practise. “ _Lu kasatsu uzbad gurud. Kasatsu umralê._ ” His words were clumsy, and his grammar probably terrible, but Thorin looked touched—whether at the meaning of the words themselves, or the choice of language, who could say.

And then, in the common tongue, he added: “Touch me again?”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly in confusion. Bilbo took another step towards him, taking each of his thick, dwarven hands in his own soft ones, guiding the hands up to his shoulders, just as they had been that terrible day, as the army of Thranduil watched dispassionately, as Thorin grabbed him, as Thorin threatened him. Bilbo inhaled slowly, clearly a little unsettled to be intentionally mimicking how Thorin had grabbed him and threatened him, but he raised his eyes to meet Thorin’s gaze. “You see?” he asked, ever so softly. “We can make new memories, Thorin. Here you are, here I am, on this terrible spot, and it’s fine. We’re fine. We’re friends.”

Thorin tilted his head, considering the hobbit, and gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulders in affirmation, in agreement. His gaze drifted over to the guards, and with a jerk of his head, he signalled them to leave. They filed out with military precision and efficiency, and Bilbo watched them go, a little confused. A moment later, when they were gone, Thorin lowered his forehead to touch Bilbo’s with infinite care. “ _Buhel_ ,” he murmured. “I would do more than embrace you, if I were truly to make new memories with you.”

Bilbo blinked up at him.

A quiet smile stole over Thorin’s face, and then he lowered his face just a tiny bit more, to press his lips against Bilbo’s, the gesture chaste and respectful, but unmistakeable. “I have called you _udmê_ , comrade, and _bâha_ , companion,” he continued. “I would also call you _gabshê_ , my treasure.”

Bilbo tilted his head, listening quietly, as if he wasn’t quite sure what Thorin was saying.

“I would embrace you for a thousand years, if it meant you came to feel safe here,” said Thorin. “And more besides.”

Understanding broke over Bilbo’s face with a crooked smile. “So that sort of thing… that’s alright with you lot, then.”

Thorin erupted into laughter at this, catching Bilbo in a tight embrace as he did so, muffling what could only be called giggles—throaty, dwarfish giggles—against Bilbo’s fair curls. “You have seen how few women we have, and how our crafts consume so many of us,” he explained, although plainly surprised that Bilbo needed an explanation by this point. “We are not like men or elves. We do not question love where we find it.”

“Not like hobbits then, either,” Bilbo added wryly, speaking to Thorin’s mail-clad shoulder. He pulled back, and Thorin released him. But Bilbo stood on his tiptoes and leaned back in to the dwarf. He softly returned the chaste kiss, pressing his lips up against Thorin’s in the same sweet fashion. “I did wonder,” he added, with a smile in his voice. “Been wondering a while, actually. I suppose that’s one reason I’ve been so happy to stay. But then I thought perhaps being a king was your craft.”

“Wonder no more,” Thorin said, his voice almost a warm purr, and this time when he bent down for a third kiss, he was neither so gentle nor so chaste. His lips parted, and his tongue traced the shape of Bilbo’s mouth, searching, asking for entrance. When Bilbo’s lips opened obligingly, he moved swiftly to claim his mouth for his own, to explore its depths, to seek its treasures. Bilbo moaned against him, arms wrapping around his neck. Thorin pressed him up the crenellation atop the gate, never breaking the kiss, running his hands through Bilbo’s soft curly hair, stroking his arms. “You are safe here,” he panted, and Bilbo clung to him. “ _Gabshê, amralizu_. I would never let you fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo-Khuzdul Glossary:  
> Bilbo loves books and languages, so realistically, in any kind of everyone lives/consort AU, he’s gonna learn Khuzdul. If the people of Erebor are cool with him being so very close to the king, they probably wouldn’t mind him learning the language. Also, as a linguist, this is an excuse for me to have fun too ^_^
> 
> Shamukh = “Greetings”
> 
> Zirak akdâmuthrab = “Master Burglar.”
> 
> Udmê = “(my) comrade”
> 
> Lu kasatsu uzbad gurud. Kasatsu umralê. = “You weren’t a terrible king. You were my dear friend.” Fun fact: Neo-Khuzdul doesn’t seem to make a distinction between “close friend” and “lover.” LET THE LINGUISTIC FUN COMMENCE. 
> 
> Buhel = “friend of all friends”
> 
> Gabshê, amralizu = “I love you, my treasure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo insists he's not that fragile. Thorin is determined to show Bilbo he's safe. With sex. They do it with sex.

Bilbo hadn’t stopped tending his garden—there was harvesting to do, after all—but he had mostly stopped visiting the gates afterwards. The memory of Thorin’s sweet kisses and sweeter confession had done much to ease the lingering vertigo he felt there and, well, there were so many more interesting things to be getting on with. His Khuzdul lessons for one; a better understanding of dwarvish society, for another. The more carefully he observed the dwarrows of Erebor, the more he seemed to see a variety of lives being lived around him. There were  families composed of friends, fellow craftsmen, shield-brothers, and sometimes, of course, husbands and wives and children. And if he was spending more time in Thorin’s room than his own, lately, no one seemed to say much about it. They were _udmây_ , comrades, and their relationship seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, as far as the dwarves were concerned.

But although their comradeship now extended to sleeping together both literally and figuratively, their exploration of each other had thus far proceeded slowly and carefully. Love did not come often to dwarves, and if Thorin was not wholly devoted to kingship as craft, still it had consumed much of his life. And although he had had past dalliances, still, he was far less experienced in such matters than his age would have suggested to Bilbo, and somewhat out of practice. As for Bilbo himself, well, he had mostly been a respectable but solitary hobbit in a small world ever focused on the fertility of land and folk; few others seemed to share his queer inclinations. Thorin, much to his credit, was never anything but gentle, as if determined to make good on his promise to spend a millennium convincing Bilbo of his safety. And for the most part, Bilbo did feel safe. And yet.

“You’re holding back,” he said one night, as Thorin kissed his way down his chest with heartbreaking patience. “I won’t break, you know. _E lu khuzd kheldul._ ”

Thorin’s gaze up at him was sweet as he replied, “ _Astu lu khuzd, zirak zantulbasn_ ,” but as he delved in for another kiss, Bilbo poked him in the nose with his index finger, holding him at a distance (however slight). “I don’t properly know how to say this,” he muttered, his hand moving to fiddle nervously with the Thorin’s rich hair that fell to curtain his face, his eyes watching his fingers as he struggled to put words together. “I’ve seen how you lot give each other simple hugs, and I can’t imagine it’s any different between you in… in bed. And it’s much rougher than you’re being with me. You’re holding back. This should be fun, Thorin—it _is_ fun—but how can you relax when you’re always worrying about how rough you’re being?” He stole a glance upwards, trying to gauge Thorin’s expression. “You fuss over me, and then I fuss over you fussing over me.”

Thorin reverently pressed the softest of kisses to Bilbo’s sterum, and answered him in a voice just as soft. “ _Mahkherekhmizu_ , _amrâlimê_ , _ra nê kânthari._ ” Bilbo narrowed his eyes at Thorin. “I daresay my Khuzdul’s not quite up to serious conversations about feelings just yet,” he grumbled. “But I’m not asking you to forget it.” He sighed. “I want you to show me I can be safe even when you’re not holding back.”

Thorin’s eyes widened ever so slightly with comprehension, and then his grip on Bilbo tightened, and his lips came down in a crashing, bruising kiss, all teeth and warring tongues. Bilbo stiffened for a moment in shock, but Thorin’s passion was contagious, and he found himself getting caught up in it, kissing back with what he hoped was equal ferocity.

“You are safe,” Thorin growled into Bilbo’s ear. “But if you are afraid, if you want me to stop, you will tell me.” Bilbo nodded, cheeks flushed. He wound his arms around Thorin, nimble fingers tangling into hair and braids, as his companion and king kissed him again and again, hands roughly tugging off his clothes. Thorin’s pelvis ground against his, the rapid rise of his arousal evident through his clothes. Bilbo was undressed quickly enough—he hadn’t been wearing much to begin with—but as he reached up to help Thorin with his tunic, he found his arms pinned roughly to his side. His lover was atop him, now, and using his substantial weight to Bilbo’s disadvantage. Again, for a moment, he panicked, his heart beating unbearably fast with some tangled mix of fear and lust. But Thorin’s voice grounded him, teeth nipping lightly at the pointed tip of his ear. “You are safe,” he proclaimed in a rough whisper. “And you are mine. _Me amê. Iglib hû!_ ”

“ _E azu_ ,” Bilbo panted out. “I’m yours.” That much, at least, he could remember, and he repeated it like a litany. “ _E azu_ ,” he breathed, over and over, grinding his own hips up to meet Thorin’s. Hearing the words in the language of his people seemed to inflame the dwarf beyond reason, and his grip on Bilbo tightened as they ground together. Bilbo arched up again and again, and despite his limited movement, his hands reached under Thorin’s tunic, scrabbling uncoordinatedly at the waistband of his trousers. Clumsily, he tried to tug them down; Thorin responded by releasing him momentarily to help. He seemed to appreciate the hobbit’s own attempt at dwarven roughness. With his trousers off, Thorin nearly ripped his tunic in his haste to remove that too. Skin against skin, now, he dove down again to rub against Bilbo, both of them seeking contact and friction against each other. He nipped at Bilbo’s ears, at his neck, at his shoulder, pinning his arms back against his sides, and growling out something that might have been _mine_.

“Sweet Yavanna,” moaned Bilbo, arching against Thorin, “if you keep doing that I…” and then he groaned, loudly, cutting off his own words. “Doing what?” asked Thorin, sliding his right hand between their bodies, and grasping Bilbo’s cock firmly in his hand. “Giving you pleasure?” he asked, stroking downwards—rougher than before, but not so rough that Bilbo couldn’t withstand it. He keened, overwhelmed by the strong sensation, and Thorin rolled off him, burying his face in the crook of Bilbo’s neck, and rubbing his cock against his hip now, all whilst continuing to stroke Bilbo with rough deliberation. “ _Akhjamizu amal, mesemu kuylê_ ,” he murmured, hot and wet against his ear, breath stirring his hair. Bilbo’s hips thrust upwards, fucking into Thorin’s hand at the encouragement, and a few seconds later he was spilling his pleasure over Thorin’s clenched fist.

Bilbo watched through half-lidded eyes as Thorin released his cock, examined the shimmering white splotches of seed spent over his hand, and then lazily licked it all up. Bilbo snorted something that might have been “dwarves!” but Thorin just casually half-leaned over Bilbo, peppering little kisses over his lips and nose and eyelids, stopping only to rest his forehead against that of his lover. “You are delicious, and now my hand is clean,” he replied. “But you are exhausted.” Bilbo nodded, unable to deny it, and in his blissful, hazy state, was all too happy to let Thorin nuzzle him up against his chest and drag the blankets over them to sleep. “ _Ansisthizu, gabshê_ ,” Bilbo heard Thorin murmur as he drifted off. “ _Hikhthuzul ansisthizu_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Thorin is a switch (with a preference for subbing/bottoming) but his dominance/roughness here is about showing Bilbo that he's in control and still capable of keeping him safe no matter what.
> 
> Neo-Khuzdul Glossary: 
> 
> Udmây = “Comrades”
> 
> E lu khuzd kheldul. = “I’m not a glass dwarf.” Forgive me, I’m basically borrowing Russian grammar to sort out how negative equational sentences work. 
> 
> Astu lu khuzd, zirak zantulbasn. = “You’re not a dwarf, master hobbit.” 
> 
> Mahkherekhmizu, amrâlimê, ra nê kânthari. = “I have hurt you, my love, and I can’t ever forget it.”
> 
> Me amê. Iglib hû! = “You’re mine. Say it!” More fun language facts: Here Thorin switches to the disrespectful form of “you” and Bilbo uses the respectful form in his reply. Tiiiiny bit of Khuzdul D/s?
> 
> Akhjamizu amal, mesemu kuylê = “I will give you pleasure, jewel of my life.”
> 
> Ansisthizu, gabshê, hikhthuzul ansisthizu = “I will keep you safe, my treasure, I will always keep you safe.”


End file.
